If I go outside right now the flowers will be buried beneath inches of cotton white snow and look like frozen lace. Even my tentative and shy rosebuds that seemed to hang in stasis for weeks will be frozen and black by tomorrow.
The eve of my first story roof that I can see from this second story office window has lost all definition and if I squint my eyes I can pretend that it is a twenty foot snow drift up against the house. Something that a fearless child could use for a magical fort or castle with many ice-walled rooms. Some gifted joy to pass the cold day.
The birds flit like colored confetti around the bird feeders that I wisely filled yesterday before the storm's arrival. They fight and compete and gorge themselves on seed and suet. The size of the bird is not the determining factor, but the size of the bill that give victory.
It is a very quiet day, a very white day as I sit alone, a very peaceful day with my feathered friends.